


Matryoshka or: How TenToo Grew Into His Own.

by JustAnotherGhostwriter



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Massive fic ahoy, some original characters inside as well, they don't play a huge role though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-26
Updated: 2014-06-26
Packaged: 2018-02-06 08:44:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1851772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustAnotherGhostwriter/pseuds/JustAnotherGhostwriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's Doctor 10.5 and he's not quite sure how to be so very human. </p><p>He realises very quickly he's going to have to do a lot of learning and discovering about his new world and about himself. There are triumphs and surprises and heartaches and fights, and she's the constant beside him. Like gravity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Matryoshka or: How TenToo Grew Into His Own.

**Author's Note:**

> This is another one of those bright ideas that was never allowed to develop into fics because I had no time/faith in my ability to write it the way I saw it. But over these past few days it took on a life of its own and plotted itself out perfectly, so I had to finally suck it up and write it all down. (Even though, once again, it didn’t turn out quite as WOW as it was supposed to). This is almost entirely filled with my personal Pete’s World headcanons, so please excuse the blatant self-indulgence here.
> 
> This fic is dedicated to (and essentially written for/because of) thesilverdevistation on Tumblr as a secret Christmas present. While it’s not my best, not really canon-compliant and not beta-read (because she’s my beta and um secret) I needed to give her a gift. Sweets, you are really an amazing person, an even beta friend (PUNS!!) and just the greatest beta reader ever. Thank you for being so bloody patient and supportive of every rambling text post I make and just… I owe you so much. I hope you feel the virtual love I am sending you through this <3 Have an amazing holiday season and the greatest new year ever <3
> 
> ETA: I’m still not sure whether I like the way the timeline of this fic runs, so if you want to read it as one of those ‘time jumps around between segments’ (and inside segments, actually) fics then please do?

**10.5** is the number of hours the Doctor had until he found himself being hustled into Torchwood One in a near panic.

An hour and a half of that time was spent on the once-forsaken beach in Norway, learning how the sand and the wind and the sun and the cold felt on his almost-human skin. Jackie called Pete almost as soon as the last sounds of the TARDIS faded away, and he promised to call in a favour and get them a ride back as soon as possible. Still, he had an hour and a half – ninety minutes – to stare at the beach and start to understand why Rose still seemed to flinch at every wave that crashed against the rocks. It was a desolate place; how a dumping ground should look. Guilt welled up in him as he watched the sun peek through the clouds for a moment before being swallowed again, mixing with the feeling of loss he couldn’t quite displace and questions about a future he could not ( _would_ not) run from that could not be answered.

His Rose let him brood in silence for only a little while, standing a little off to the side and watching the sea as though trying to hypnotize herself into forgetting. She was not crying – he was so grateful – but there was something small and broken about her face and the way she hunched over, arms crossed, that made his chest feel like it was on fire. After twenty-two minutes, however, she suddenly moved toward him. Her fingers laced into his with purpose and his curious look was met with a smile.

“Hello,” she said, a thousand other things spoken in the way her voice hitched and her fingers shook and her eyes gleamed a little.

He gave her the biggest grin he could muster, clinging on tight and chasing away all the lingering darkness with the light of that smile. “Hello.”

And then, once they opened the floodgates, the words did not stop. They spoke at rapid speeds, interlocking sentences, finishing thoughts, starting new stories before the previous ones were done. They spoke about everything except the things too heavy and too intimate for a grey expanse of beach.

(Those things came later, when they were wrapped together and shielded from the hurt they spoke about by each other’s bodies.)

They walked as they spoke, hands gesturing wildly and feet unable to keep still. They walked in a wide circle, eyes locked, learning once more how to orbit each other as easily as they drew breath. And then, all of a sudden, the talking changed to gasping and shrieking as a wave caught them both above the knee. They hadn’t even noticed they’d wandered closer to the ocean, let alone _that_ close. For a moment they stared at each other, stunned to silence by the shock of the cold and the spray, and then they began to laugh. When the next wave came they tried – and failed – to jump over it, laughing at how soaked their clothes were, now. The Doctor raised some seawater to his lips and tasted it, thrilled by how human tastebuds worked. It was bitter. And _so salty_.

Rose splashed him to get him to stop, reminding him that humans died from too much saltwater (fragile creatures, they were. He’d never been so fragile before). He splashed her back just because. And after that, a war began – splashes and kicks and jumps that brought out the sparkle in her eye and the wicked grin he’d ached for for so long. He grinned and glowed and laughed and got salt in his eye and cried, which made both of them laugh so hard they were bent double with the force of it. Everything was bright and brilliant and new and _happy_ ; oh so happy because she was there and he could see _his_ Rose in her eyes again without having to search for her.

They ended up in an arm lock, each trying to dunk the other in a particularly large wave. Rose was stronger than she looked and he delighted in it, pulling her forward so she would lose her balance. And then he just kept pulling her, until her lips were on his and they were kissing again as wild and as hungry as before. There was still a bit of his brain that told him _no_ – that screamed at him to _stop_ because he couldn’t let himself, couldn’t give in to temptation, couldn’t let her get _that_ close because he was ageless and if he let himself taste heaven every day she was gone would be a hell he’d never be able to get over, not even with the help of brilliant Donna.

He pushed that part away – that was no longer him.

Her fingers curled into his hair possessively as his arms clutched at her back, her shoulders, her waist… They were pressed so close together they were almost leaning on each other, hands swift and clawing and paying no heed to things like the pain that would come if nails dug into flesh. They kissed with a desperation that had no words, a fierceness and a possessiveness that the rest of the world would not understand and an anger (betrayal, frustration) that they should not be allowed to feel but did, anyway.

A long time later, their kiss quietened. They did not loosen their hold, but it became gentler; lost the desperation and instead turned to a tender sort of passion. They paused for air and kissed lightly, like shy teenagers exploring love for the first time. Fingers entwined again and he allowed himself to trail soft kisses down her jaw, her neck, her suddenly bare shoulders. She kept one hand against his chest, feeling his one heart thump wildly because of her (for her, with her) until his head raised again and her fingers went to caressing his face.

 _It was made for you; this body_ he wanted to tell her. _Everything from the face right down to the spaces between the fingers_. He didn’t say a word; she already knew he was hers in every way that mattered.

One kiss to her forehead and she was melting into his arms, fitting her head in the space between his neck and his collarbone while he buried his face in her hair and wished – whimsically – that he never had to leave.

“OI! Would you two _idiots_ stop standing in the sea and get a _move on_? The Zeppelin is here!”

They started apart, met each other’s gaze and grinned. Hands still entwined they picked their way out of the water and up the beach to where the looming balloon was waiting. Rose’s jacket was fished out of the sand – how it had gotten off her was mystery enough, let alone how it had landed clear of the water – and they took turns shaking it out as they made their way to their lift. Jackie was already seated, tutting at them but making no snide comments about what must have been a very drawn-out snogging session right in front of where she stood and waited.

The eight hour trip home was spent with him and Rose curled against each other in their seats, every limb possible entwined in some way. Rose filled him in on random differences in the universe that was now their home, but he found himself paying more attention to the way she spoke and viewed the things she spoke about than the facts. He needed to learn about the man he was now, of course, but he also needed to learn about the woman who sat beside him. His Rose, but also different: new-old, same as him.

Ten and a half hours until they touched down on the landing base of Torchwood One, and he already knew the most important part of who he was: he was a man who was irrevocably, unashamedly, absolutely in love with Rose Tyler.

 **10** tri-annuals; that’s how long he made her wait for him.

Rose had avoided telling him the exact amount of time she’d spent on Pete’s World without him, and he’d avoided asking. It was Pete who dropped the bombshell without meaning to, answering the Doctor’s cheeky ‘it’s been a long time’ with a teasing ‘three and a half years isn’t long enough’. And the Doctor froze in his enthusiastic handshake as the truth finally hit home just how long he’d left her alone for. Yes, it had been two and a half years – technically – for him, but it had been two and a half years with Martha and Donna and sometimes Jack and Mickey and saving the world and discovering new things. And Rose…

“It hasn’t been quite that long,” Rose said quickly, tightening her hold on him as she felt him stiffen.

“No, I suppose not. Forgive me for adding on two months for the sake of theatrics.”

He seemed to pick up something was wrong when Rose didn’t grin at him. His eyes flickered to the Doctor, who was still going over the implications of _three and a half years_ , and must have seen something alarming on his face because Pete suddenly straightened, tense and inflexible and ready for war. But before he could demand an answer as to what was wrong, the Torchwood officials – against his knowledge and deaf to his commands – swooped down upon them and wrenched the Doctor away.

Even as the Doctor struggled against them, demanding to be let go or at least told where they were going, he was drowning in the weight of _three years_. The part of him that was Donna filled in the human perspective of that amount of time that a Time Lord would never have grasped, and he fully realized just how long he had made her wait for him. It was only when he was being sat upon a sterile, uncomfortable gurney that he realized that he’d forgotten who had jumped universes, in the end. He’d forgotten that she hadn’t simply waited, but had also been the one to act when he’d merely labelled it _impossible_ and had doomed himself to learning to live without her. She hadn’t once complained; hadn’t once levelled an accusation his way that he, the brilliant Time Lord, hadn’t thought to keep looking for a way to get back to her. She had simply found him and had refused to let go again once she did.

And he realized, somewhere between finding his hand ripped from hers by forceful Torchwood agents and seeing her march into the medical bay he was being held in for testing and questioning, head high, entire body _radiating_ determination, that he hadn’t _made_ her wait at all. She’d waited on her own strength, with the knowledge that he either would come back for her or she’d _make_ a way back to him herself. His Rose had come to rescue him; not the other way around. And all he could do, while she pulled rank – _Lieutenant_ Tyler, was it? Oh, his brilliant Rose – and refused to be cowed by men in white coats almost double her age, was grin at her as though she was Christmas and a million birthdays and the dawn of time itself all wrapped into one person.

Ten tri-annuals; that’s how long she had had to learn how to love him with everything but live as her own person. Ten tri-annuals was how long Rose Tyler fought to get back to him while firmly establishing herself apart from him. She was not his equal because he was suddenly more human; she was his equal because she finally realized all he’d tried to show her about herself. There was ten tri-annuals worth of fire and fervour in her eyes that promised him she’d meant what she’d told him all that time ago: _forever_.

He gripped her hand again, refused to let go even when the doctors tugged him and simply smiled at them when they groused. Rose stood beside him, her narrowed eyes watching every instrument they brought toward him with as much distrust as he showed delighted interest, her thumb tracing patterns over his hand.

The waiting was over. They would never allow the other to be lost ever again.

 **9** is the number of days it took him to realize his new life would not be that easy.

It took almost a day before Torchwood decided he was not a danger to the world or himself, at least medically speaking. Rose all but marched him out the building, sending little glares at anybody who dared come too close. Her mood was not improved by her lack of sleep and the Doctor himself was too exhausted to try and make her smile. He supposed he’d need almost as much sleep as a regular human, now. How frightfully dull.

They called a taxi and it was only after Rose had given the driver the address that she blinked and turned to the Doctor in realization.

“Um,” she said, blushing slightly and playing with the zipper of her jacket. “You can… uh… my flat is rather tiny, with just one… bedroom… If you’d prefer, the mansion has…?”

He felt a squirm of embarrassment that was beaten by the exhaustion and the lethargy that came from being prodded around by different people for a long time. “With you,” was all he responded, giving her hand a squeeze.

They hadn’t talked about _them,_ really, but the breaking through universes and holding hands and kissing pretty much took care of that sort of talk. They didn’t need to label their relationship, he reckoned.

And for a while, he was right. They got back to Rose’s rather small, rather messy flat and both passed out on the bed within fifteen minutes. The next eight days were spent tidying up the flat and catching up. Day nine was a Monday, and it was the day Rose went back to work.

They’d spent the week-and-a-bit holed up in her flat, focusing so much on what had passed that they did not think to consider the immediate future. As such, the Doctor only had the suit he’d taken from the TARDIS. Day nine started with him wandering around Rose’s flat, restless but completely aimless and ended with him being dragged back to Torchwood so he could be given a ‘real identity’.

He’d almost always gone by John Smith, but seeing it being stamped next to his picture on every official document, every official website and every phoney birth, school, college and employment record did something funny in his chest. The only person of the twelve in the room that called him Doctor after he first answered _John Smith_ to their question was Pete.

And he felt…

From there, things went downhill. Clothes shopping started out exciting but, somewhere near the end, he realized he was being _bought_ clothes as though he was a little boy. That led him to realize he had no money – no way to take care of himself, let alone him and Rose – and no way of getting it. What sort of job was he going to do? Where would he fit in that wouldn’t bore him to tears? Every place wanted contactable references; there was only so much Torchwood could do for him. And those thoughts led to sleepless nights of ceiling staring wherein he asked himself, over and over, what his purpose was, now. What was he actually _doing_? What could he offer the girl who slept at his side, anyway?

Would the rest of the life he was stuck on the slow path be… this?

Rose asked him to go grocery shopping and he laughed off the idea, not noticing how much it hurt and frustrated her; not remembering that he was in this the same as she was, now. A friend of the family asked him if he was Rose’s boyfriend and he told her no because the term did not quite fit them – humans had to label everything, didn’t they? – and said friend took him literally and told Rose that he didn’t feel the same way as she did, and that he was probably going to leave as soon as he was on his feet.

He thought he cleared it up with her, but read in her eyes that she was still hurt and angry. That was the first night they slept without touching. The next day they yelled at each other. It started as an argument about _sugar_ , of all things, and before he knew it they were both screaming and ripping into each other with words and hinting at threats that neither of them would ever follow through.

The slamming of Rose’s bedroom door sounded like a gunshot.

He sunk down onto the couch and stared at his hands, the anger receding in time with the ticking clock. After ten minutes he had no idea what he’d been angry about, really. All he could see was the pain in Rose’s eyes as her crueller word choices chased themselves around in his head. The Doctor couldn’t even fully blame the fight on Donna’s temper or the half of him that was human: he’d been this ready to lash out – this hurt, this angry, this lost – when he’d worn leather and big ears. The Time Lord had been right: he was the same as when Rose had first met him. Only this him seemed to know how to hurt her better.

He created a hundred apologies in his head, but none of them were good enough. And so time wore on as he sat on the couch and thought, wallowing in the knowledge that he was purposeless and dependent and restless and _sorry, so sorry_.

It reached almost midnight, and he wondered if Rose not coming out meant he had to sleep on the couch that night. He didn’t _know_ how those sorts of things worked: had never been in any situation where he had to learn to understand a relationship like they had. He didn’t know if flowers were only in the movies, or if he had to buy some for her tomorrow. He didn’t know how to broach the topic of apologising. He didn’t know if he could expect an apology for her part in it, or if he had to take all the blame now that they were… What? He didn’t even know _that_ much.

Finally, misery drove him to his feet and he moved toward the bedroom. The door opened almost noiselessly and he could tell, from the way Rose lay, that she was not asleep. Heart almost in his throat, the Doctor decided to try his luck. He padded to the bed and sat down. When Rose said nothing, he got under the covers and lay on his back, staring at the dark ceiling and feeling the tension in the air as acutely as if it were tangible.

“Rose?” he whispered finally.

She rolled over in response, wrapping her arms around him tentatively. He kissed her head and held her close. They ended up apologising in unison.

“I didn’t expect it to be this hard,” he confessed to her in the darkness, feeling his chest constrict. “All of it…”

“It’s not all cuddles and rainbows,” Rose agreed. “Not even when you love somebody _this_ much. But… we’ll make it work, yeah?”

Some of the building pressure eased off his chest as she once again uttered _the_ word. He leaned down and kissed her firmly on the mouth. “Rose Tyler, I love you.” Her smile was dazzling, and he swore he’d say it every day – at least once – for as long as he was able.

It took nine weeks before he finally asked Pete if he had any vacancies at Torchwood.

“Finally,” Pete sighed, getting a file out of his desk drawer. The Doctor opened it to find all the papers necessary for him to start as a Torchwood field agent, waiting for his signature. “I was going to start dropping hints if you didn’t hurry up. Even if I promised-“

He cut off and the Doctor’s eyes narrowed at his choice of words. “What? Jackie didn’t want me working here?”

It turned out it wasn’t Jackie at all. It turned out Rose, on her first day back, had marched into a Torchwood board meeting and had basically (politely) refused to leave until the Doctor was allowed a job. As soon as the position was set up – somewhat tailor-made for him as far as normal Torchwood employments worked– she swore everybody to secrecy. He had to choose it on his own, she insisted. He had to accept because he wanted to. Otherwise it would turn from an opportunity into an obligation; something to keep her happy and something that would ultimately trap him.

He asked for an advance on his first salary and spent more than half of it on flowers for Rose on the way home.  

 **8** is the number of curtains Rose had in her flat.

The Doctor wasn’t sure when the slight dislike turned into actual hatred. The very first morning he’d awoken in the flat he’d already remarked that there were, at the very least, no carpets whatsoever. And he’d always shuddered at the mention of bills and paying off the mortgage and doing silly little things like washing out the refrigerator.

Perhaps it started when Jackie asked him, a week into his Torchwood job, how much he’d be able to contribute to the groceries and the rent. She wasn’t complaining, even though Rose was – he learned later – taking money from her parents to balance out finances now that there were two of them living on her budget. No, the Doctor knew, even before Jackie was finished speaking, that she was just trying to look out for her daughter – and him – in that slightly convoluted way of hers.

But it finally hit home, a little while later, that he actually did have to contribute. Bills and food and mortgage for a flat – an actual flat – that had curtains and a welcome mat and a post box in the street downstairs. A flat that did not move. A flat that held responsibilities.

Add that to a bad day and Rose being perhaps a little too snide when she told him he’d forgotten to buy milk _again_ and he just…

He wasn’t even sure, later, exactly what he’d yelled. But he’d made it clear that he _bloody hated domestic_. And then he growled about milk and left in a huff to go and buy it. By the time he returned to the flat, he was ready for the retribution he deserved. He expected Rose to be waiting, eyes tight and arms crossed, when he entered through the front door. But she was nowhere to be found. Instead, in the middle of the passage between the open-plan kitchen and living room and the rest of the house was a bundle of cloth. After dropping the milk on the counter so he could prod the bundle, the Doctor found out it was curtains. The curtains from the kitchen and the living room, to be exact.

Completely baffled, the Doctor stared from the bundle to the now bare windows in the two rooms, brain going a hundred miles a minute without coming up with what he considered a plausible explanation. Suddenly, a spot of blue down the hallway caught his attention, and, incredulously, the Doctor went closer to assure himself that it was, in fact, the bathroom curtain on the floor.

It was.

Automatically, the Doctor headed into the last room in the small flat to seek answers. The door would not open all the way and when he peered around to discover what was making it stick he found three of the bedroom curtains lying in a pool. Glancing to the window, he found Rose balancing precariously on the bedside table, diligently taking the last curtain from the window. He watched her in stunned silence, and it was only once she threw the curtain to the floor that she noticed him standing in the doorway. They looked at each other, long and silent, and Rose shrugged, her mouth thin and vulnerable. She looked at the pile of curtains and her shoulders hunched slightly.

“I’m sorry,” she started, “I… they’re all I can…”

He leapt through the door in an instant, tripping over his own feet in his haste to get to her. After yanking her down into his arms, he buried his nose in her hair and squeezed her as tight as he could, murmuring nonsense and apologies and confessions of the hatred for the tiny flat that he did not want but had anyway. Rose held him back, cried only a little, and let him vent.

“I love you,” was the only thing she told him until they let go.

Three weeks later he put all eight curtains back up himself while Rose was at work. He’d finally confirmed, the day before, that there was a group of teenage boys who hung around outside the flat, hoping they could get a glimpse of Rose in her undies. He knew if he told her she’d simply change in the bathroom or at night with the lights off, but this was _her_ house and they had no business staring and what if him and Rose wanted to use the bedroom during the day, sometime?

(Also, if she was around he’d have to explain to her exactly how he got his solid proof that they were watching her and… well. The less she knew about why she’d suddenly ‘misplaced’ some underwear, the better.)

 It took him a rather embarrassingly long time to do it right, but the more the bits of material foiled him the more determined he got. Finally, after cursing domesticity and curtain companies and the curtain rods and pelmets and teenage boys and his clumsy fingers and not having a Sonic for close to two hours the job was complete, and he was allowed to flop onto the couch and grin at his handiwork a little manically.

Of course, his efforts had caused a few casualties, especially in the kitchen, and Rose had been rather fond of that mug… To compensate for the broken china (and the beheaded rubber duck), the Doctor decided to make Rose a nice dinner of baked beans and toast for when she got home. This plan was foiled when it was revealed they were out of baked beans. The Doctor was just about to pop out and buy some more when his eyes caught sight of a cookbook. Somebody had once told him that cooking was very similar to math: follow the rules and the steps, and you’d get to where you needed to go. After thumbing through the cookbook, the Doctor decided that he was going to test this theory.

The first thing Rose noticed when she walked through the door was that the curtains in the living room were back up. The second thing she noticed was the smell coming from the kitchen. Curious, she rounded the little bit of wall blocking her view from the kitchen and froze in her tracks. Close to every single pot and pan they owned was strewn across the counters, in the sink and on the floor. All of them were noticeably dirty, even from the distance at which she stood. Condiments littered the spaces the pots and pans didn’t take up and there was a mess of what looked like grape juice-infused flour all over the floor. In the middle of the chaos, wielding a wooden spoon and wearing her multi-coloured “Princess In The Kitchen” apron, was the Doctor.

“What have you done?” she asked him, in a hushed voice, horror and hilarity fighting for control of her emotions.

He turned and beamed at her, a bit of raw egg hanging from his hair. “Rose! You’re home! I made dinner!”

“Dinner?” she questioned weakly. At least it wasn’t some kind of ‘harmless, really, Rose’ experiments that always ended up causing trouble.

“Yep!” He popped the P and then glanced at her expression properly. “Well.” He scratched the back of his neck sheepishly. “It… uh… took a few tries. But!” Suddenly full of energy once more, he bounded to the stove and scooped something onto his wooden spoon before bounding back to Rose. “Try this!”

“Doctor,” she said hurriedly, taking a step back. “I don’t-“ He shoved the food into her mouth and she nearly choked. But then the taste hit her and her eyes widened even more. “That’s… _really good_. What is that?”

“A soup I invented!” he told her proudly. He grabbed her hand and towed her into the unholy mess, pulling off pot lids and showing her the rest of dinner, proudly. “You’re going to love it!” he promised.

“Whatever you say, princess,” she teased, and eared a swat on the bum with the wooden spoon.

Dinner was, Rose admitted freely, absolutely amazing. They both had seconds of everything and then set about cleaning up together, shoulders brushing comfortably as they stood side-by-side at the sink. As they got to the last pile of dishes, the Doctor mentioned casually that he actually quite liked this cooking thing, and he would probably try it again sometime. Rose agreed, of course, and couldn’t bring herself to lay down the law that he use a maximum of half the stuff they owned.

The Doctor cooked almost every night from then on for two weeks. By week three, they invited Jackie, Pete and Tony around for dinner. The older Tylers were obviously a little hesitant, but with some persuading they agreed to come. Rose had to duck her head into the refrigerator to keep herself from laughing at her parents’ faces when they came in to find the Doctor, covered in sugar and her apron, shoving trays of still-warm baked goods into their hands.

“ _What_ the bloody-“ Jackie started to ask, before she was being force-fed a cookie Rose knew to be delicious. “What’s all this?” she finished, weakly, after the cookie had disappeared.

“I’m _domestic_ , now!” the Doctor told her, his delight and his face-wide grin completely genuine.

“Not _quite_ ,” Rose amended fondly as she stopped the sauce from bubbling over just in the nick of time.

He just grinned wider and offered Pete one of his miniature chicken pies, which Pete took with only a moment’s hesitance, bless him.

“What have you been putting in his tea?” Jackie whispered to her daughter, eying the Doctor’s brightly coloured apron with disbelief. Rose only laughed and handed her mom a glass of wine. “D’ya think it’ll last, then?” was Jackie’s next shrewd question, no doubt remembering the hate for domesticity that had been no secret with Doctors past.

Rose shrugged. “I dunno, Mum. Maybe this is him trying really hard for my sake. Maybe it’ll wear off and he’ll get a restlessness that can’t be satisfied by a weekend away or whatever. Maybe he genuinely has found that this isn’t all that bad.” She shrugged again. “He’s happy,” she concluded, as though that was the secret to the balance of the universe.

“Yeah,” Jackie responded fondly, watching the three boys decorating the pizzas with gusto.

A few days later, there were six curtains in their flat – the two in the kitchen died a fiery, tragic death. But he got to help pick out the replacements and after promising never to attempt to speed up the cooking time of something until he got the new Sonic _completely right_ all was forgiven and right in the world once more.

 **7** is the number of days they spent on their first road trip.

It started with a slow lunch break; them lying head-to-heel on the plush carpet in her office munching a bag of chips set between them. As it often did, their conversation strayed to their adventures in the TARDIS. They laughed at old memories, teased about the time the Doctor ate a berry that gave him flatulence for three days and the time Rose had to run away from a crowd wearing a hotdog suit and then somehow felt themselves slipping into melancholy. The Doctor’s tone turned a little brittle as he ached and missed and yearned. He tried to stop, when he noticed Rose looking at him with troubled eyes – tried to reassure her that it didn’t mean he was _unhappy_ just… just… - but she knew him too well.

“Where are you going?” he reached for her hand and missed.

“I’ll be right back, yeah? Finish the chips.”

He did as she said, sitting alone in her office and contemplating the determined look that had appeared in her eyes before she’d gotten up so hastily. She returned twenty minutes later, grinning from ear to ear.

“Where’d you go?”

“To ask for a week’s leave for the two of us and the loan of a Jeep.”

He stilled at once. “And?”

She swung the Jeep’s keys in front of her, beaming and shivering with excitement. They were back at her apartment in under five minutes, shoving essentials into suitcases and running back to the car as though they were being chased. Rose drove – she was the only one with a valid license, as of yet, even though it had only been _two market stalls_ and he’d _apologised_ – and he gave random directions, as clueless as to where they were going as she was. By late afternoon they were still directionless but in such high spirits they were almost giddy. Every song that came on the radio that they even remotely recognised was howled along to at the tops of their voices. If they didn’t know the words they made their own up, more often than not breaking into hysterics less than a minute in and not being able to stop until the song was over.

Rose all but slamming on the breaks took him completely by surprise, and it was a while before he noticed what she was gaping at. Wildflowers littered the almost-hills that surrounded the road, already beginning to close for the night as the sun crept toward the horizon.

“They haven’t grown since before the stars started going out,” Rose explained in a near-whisper, eyes on the flowers as though they were precious stones.

The Doctor smiled gently and coaxed her into parking the car. They got out and walked into the thickest flower growth before lying down. Rose showed him how some of the flowers were actually multi-coloured if one twisted them to the light in a certain way. The Doctor pointed out some bugs that he had never seen before that crawled along the petals. They stayed there until the sun had fully set, intently watching as the flowers around them slowly closed.

“It’s actually amazing,” Rose said in awe, watching a flower close before her as she braided another into her hair. Then she blushed slightly. “Well. I mean, it’s not a planet full of dogs with no noses but…”

The Doctor sent a flower twirling into the air, watching it change colour even in the dim light and grinned up at the slowly appearing stars that weren’t all familiar to him. “Earth has its wonders,” he agreed.

“Yeah.” She was beaming, when he looked at her. “You just gotta know how to look. It… It took me a while. When I first got stuck here but… There _is_ so much out there. But not all of it is out _there_ , out there. You just… gotta know how to look.”

He always knew Rose Tyler was brilliant, but in that moment he was sure she was damn near to a certifiable genius. Because he was finally starting to understand something that a him with the expanse of _everything_ at his fingertips would never really have stopped to consider. And his Rose, who he’d taken to every place he could think of that would blow her away so he could see the brilliance afresh through her eyes, had learned what he was only starting to realize then. There were great planets and astounding galaxies and she, like all he’d taken with him, had given everything she had just so she could reach out to the unknown and grab it and feel it and _understand_ , shining in the brilliance of her wonder the whole time.

But there were also the little things.

“Show me,” he asked her again, hand in hers and trust given over freely.

There were also the little things. Like the almost overpowering smell of the wildflowers in her hair as he kissed her. Like the way she giggled the phrase ‘like _teenagers_ ’ when he lay her down on the back seat of the Jeep. Like the patterns his fingers made against the fogged-up window as she kissed fire into his blood. Like the way he fell of the narrow seat and like the way she felt when she was breathless with laughter at his antics when there was nothing but skin separating them. Like the way it felt to curl around somebody in a narrow expanse of leather and sleep on the side of the road, door open and the moths for company.

Like the way it felt to stumble across a village that was virtually unheard of, where people lived simply and smiled freely. Like the way it felt to learn to pluck a chicken and watch Rose press grapes with her feet, her borrowed skirt hitched high and her face full of delight. Like the way Grape-On-Rose’s-Skin tasted as the cold water from the stream washed away a long, delightful day’s hard work. Like how it felt to run, barefoot, around a riverbed chasing a goat that had stolen his pants.

Little things like the way she squealed unwillingly when the World’s Cleverest Earthworms were suddenly dumped over her head. Like the way he said her name when he was breathless from laughing but trying to be apologetic. Like the way meeting lips at the middle of a roasted earthworm chain felt and tasted and made her laugh.

Like the way she categorized her sunsets, using a method that made no scientific sense but that he adopted instantly. Like the way she beamed when he out-knowledged a rude librarian, tongue between her teeth as he pulled out books and crowed in delight at how much this universe really was the same.

Like the way meeting an alien race he’d never heard of felt; the way he learned their native greeting in awe, the way both he and Rose helped fix their ship, the way she cooed at the children and made his insides melt, the way they helped a colony without even setting out to play heroes.

Little things like the way she braided her hair for a swim, the way she looked before coffee, the way beds with squeaky springs now annoyed him to no end. Like the traveling circus of trained rats they accidentally set free and had to spend the next day and a bit catching again. Like the way they argued for close to a hundred miles over which flavoured milk was the best.

Little things like the way both of them didn’t even mind, all that much, when they pulled back into Torchwood’s driveway after six and three quarter days. How they both agreed they’d missed their shower. How Jake swore all the alien invasions on London stopped as soon as they were out of town. Like how Rose saved little bits and bobs from every place they’d been and spent the evening carefully placing it in a brand new book, ignoring his teasing until he sat beside her and helped. The way it felt to write down memories in such a _human_ way for the first time in his life.

He learned that he hadn’t put traveling and exploring and learning and being brilliant in a different place behind him. There were still things to see he’d never seen with those eyes before, still discoveries to be made, still people to be saved, still wonders to make Rose’s face radiate. The type and tempo of the traveling was just… different, now. And different, he’d learned long ago, was very usually _fantastic_.

It was him who pulled her, excitedly, onto the roof the first day they were back so she could notice the golden sheen to the clouds. They stayed outside, finding images and fortunes and promises in the expanses of air, until the heavens opened and they were forced back inside.

“What were you two up to?” Cooper asked them, utterly astonished as they slipped and slid back into the office.

“Seeing,” the Doctor grinned at him.

Cooper only shook his head in bemusement.

 **6** is the number of missions it took before he corrected them on his name.

The eleven Torchwood officials who were not Pete Tyler and who had had a hand in creating his identity unfortunately spread said name to the far ends of Torchwood he did not interact with every day. This meant that while all the people he could call at least acquaintances addressed him as Doctor, new agents he came into contact with for meetings or missions or coffee breaks had a tendency to use his official alias instead. Especially since, the Doctor learned about a month into the job, one particular Senior Agent adamantly called him nothing else and spoke of him to all those who worked on the floors he frequented quite often.

“David Hackentosh is a _twit_ ,” Rose said rather viciously the first time he brought it up in casual conversation. He’d gaped at her in surprise at her violent reaction and she scowled back, suddenly not as enthusiastic about her lunch. “He’s one of _those_ people. He lives off making trouble for others. Hates those better than him that he can’t control in some way. He fought my employment at Torchwood and all but planned a rebellion when I was promoted, claiming nepotism and that I was a risk to those who worked with me and so on. And when that didn’t work he tried to hook up with me at one of Mum’s parties. And ever since I told him to go to hell he’s been doing everything in his power to annoy me or make things difficult for me. He’s honestly the closest to slime I have ever met in a human being. He’s only still around because he’s damn good at his job and isn’t as trigger-happy as a lot of other Senior Agents.”

As terrible as it was, the Doctor found himself instantly disliking “Dave” after Rose’s tales, even though before lunch he’d honestly been more than willing to put it down to a human’s little quirk or even a misunderstanding that could be put right. Still, it was only after his first personal run in with David Hackentosh that he understood why so many people – Rose especially – glowered when his name was mentioned. The Doctor was called in to consult on some Sonic technology that had been confiscated from some visiting, shop-lifting aliens. The Doctor bounded in, all smiles, greeted those he knew and introduced himself to those he didn’t, recognising Hackentosh and sticking out his hand with a broad grin.

“Until I see a genuine doctorate,” Hackentosh had said back with a smile that was cold and smug, “I’m not calling you by a title you’ve decided to give yourself. Elliot, give _Smith_ the photographs, please.”

For the rest of the consult, he was addressed as Smith by everybody on the team. He was too bewildered, too busy getting illegitimate Sonic technology out of London and too sympathetic toward the team of agents who didn’t know any better to correct Hackentosh in the way he deserved.

After that, the Doctor saw a pattern: it was, actually, _only_ those that worked with Hackentosh often that called him John Smith on missions or consultations or on coffee breaks. The latter he dismissed; what people called you when you were eating a doughnut on the sly or downing coffee to stay awake hardly mattered. But when he was _working_ , the blatant dismissal of his name irked him. And as time wore on and the Doctor was called John Smith or a close variant thereof not only by Hackentosh’s colleagues but also by members of the other Torchwood branches that he’d never met before, the slight annoyance morphed into something more.

It was the fifth mission when it all came to a head.

There was a race called the Toko who wanted earth as a breeding ground for what passed as their cattle. And they were not open for negotiation. The three best teams of Torchwood One were paired with the best team of Torchwood Three – Torchwood Scotland – which had been the place where the first wave of the invasion had hit. The other teams from the various Torchwoods were standing by, being briefed about the military response that was looking more and more likely as the alien ships swarmed around the atmosphere. The Doctor was one of the three ‘teams’ from Torchwood One allowed into the thick of things – he’d told the Board from the beginning that since he was more of a consultant than a field agent in the strictest sense he’d work by himself, fitting in wherever anybody needed him or with Lieutenant Tyler’s team when he needed people. And nobody had been able to argue their way around his insistences. Rose’s team was, of course, also there; they too held the labels of ‘some of the best’ and were also known to stubbornly stow away to anything really threatening, even if they were ordered to stay behind.

“Smith, check those readings!” Unfortunately, Hackentosh bore said ‘best’ label too.

The Doctor grit his teeth against the uncomfortable feeling rising in his chest and focused on the invasion, even when he was called Smith by several other agents from both Torchwood branches. In fact, as the danger built toward a mad, desperate hope of the human race’s survival, his alias was yelled out by many different voices; every side of the small command centre wanted his attention. And then different agents started fighting with each other on whose idea was more promising, whose data was more accurate, whose line of thought the Doctor would do the most good pursuing…

“Enough!” Rose finally roared, showing that she’d learned quite a bit from her mother in the way she glared. “We’re all on the same side! And we don’t have time for this! Melissa, you and Roberts go to where there’s proper signal and brief the others on what we’re trying to do.” Rose moved around the room like a whirlwind as she spoke, snatching at data sheets and information packages and people’s unauthorised weapons. “Hackentosh, McGiles, get your teams ready for this. Ainsley, _stop_ it and _move_ – can’t you _hear_ them coming? Smith just-“

In the middle of a full-scale alien invasion, both the Doctor and Rose froze. They stared at each other, completely mute and completely horrified with what she’d just said. The logical part of his mind knew it was just a slip of the tongue; just stress and adrenalin and repetition and distractedness all coming into play at once. But the part at the forefront of his brain – his emotional side – saw it nothing except earth-shattering. Rose lifted one hand to her lips, looking as though the earth had suddenly shifted. It was somebody yelling profanities that got them moving again, in opposite directions from one another, neither uttering a single word.

They managed to stop the Toko with a combination of acid and salt; a concoction that ate at their engines and made them politely take the ‘leave or we’ll open fire’ ultimatum Pete sent their way via a seven hundred foot projection. Before the Doctor could latch onto Rose and make sure she was truly okay she was being marched into an inquisition by other Torchwood agents. The Doctor only stopped himself from going after them when Jake grabbed him and explained it was for an Unsatisfactory Command and Unsatisfactory Action complaint filed against her by none other than David Hackentosh before the invasion had even ended. Pete wanted it out of the way ASAP, so Rose would be indisposed for a while.

The Doctor joined Rose’s team at the door to the conference room, ear pressed just above Jake’s as they all strained to hear. The first bit was done in even tones that were too soft for any of them to make out. And then, about five minutes in, Rose finally lost her cool and started yelling.

“I call him Doctor the same reason I call a cat a cat and a board a board and a bloody Zeppelin a bloody Zeppelin!” her voice roared, making them all jump at the suddenness.

“It’s unprofessional!” Hackentosh roared back, obviously appealing to the Board. “And it makes her act unprofessionally! She stood still, without moving, in the midst of-“

“Oh, and you arguing with Ainsley about who got to carry the revolver ‘just in case’ for _five minutes_ was so very productive while we were still in the _Prevention Phase_ ,” Rose bit back, not about to be cowed. “This is ridiculous, Hackentosh! You’ve gone _out of your way_ since day bloody one to ignore his preferred name and it’s-“

“His. Name. Is. John. Smith.” Hackentosh snarled back. “He _chose_ that name, now he needs-“

“Because he was _forced_ to choose a name! He’s never gone by anything _but_ the Doctor and you-!”

“It’s ridiculous! So if we were to interact with Torchwood Seven, would we translate his name into French and start using that? Or would he still be ‘the Doctor’?”

“He’ll _always_ be ‘the Doctor’!” Rose shrieked back, and the sudden similarity to Jackie’s shouting was uncanny. “In every language, culture and bloody planet! Just like _you’ll_ always be _the prick_.”

There was a chorus of low ‘ooo’s and appreciative snickering from those waiting around the Doctor.

“All right!” Pete bellowed, ending their screaming match and bringing the meeting back to a level inaudible to those outside.

Rose left without so much as a warning on her file, and Hackentosh left in a temper that was actually quite impressive. Rose was still grumpy, but was mostly a little abashed that she’d snapped so completely, especially when the team teased her so. The Doctor was mostly silent, although he worked up a grin when she turned concerned eyes his way, and insisted to everybody that he was just tired but ultimately fine.

He was not fine.

Slumped together on their couch in front of the TV with Rose, who was swiftly falling asleep on his shoulder, the Doctor found himself unable to concentrate fully on anything except the tumult in his head. Rose had called him Smith. And although she’d apologised, looking stricken, in the car on the way home and though he’d assured her that it was _fine_ he was still without a convincing argument as to why she’d been _wrong_ in doing it. John Smith was pasted next to his face in _everything_ in this universe.

 _“But the Doctor’s still_ you _,”_ she’d said, and she hadn’t been looking at him.

 _“And he’s me_.” But what did the Time Lord have as proof of that? A hand he’d once briefly had? A face that was the same? Memories?

All he’d had before, when he’d regenerated, was memories. Memories and the TARDIS and people around who _knew_ the legends of the Doctor. He had the memories, yes, but he was scant a TARDIS and only had half a Sonic Screwdriver made from scraps of illegal, confiscated sonic weapons. His name had always been _his_ : his best-kept secret, his terrible privilege, his calculated choice. Doctor, because that’s what he’d wanted to be to the universe. And now? Now that he could only help save one small planet in the cosmos? Now that he had one heart and one life and one place as his final destination?

He didn’t want them calling him Smith because he was terrified that was all he was, now.

Finally he moved, carding his fingers into Rose’s hair, trying to stop them from shaking. Human emotions, he thought wryly, made him irrational. He couldn’t think logically in that body of his, not about something that staggering. And therein lay the problem: that body.

“Rose?” His voice shook too. “Rose?”

“Hmmm?” She was more asleep than awake.

“You can… you… you can call me John, if you want.” His mouth was as dry as his chest was empty.

“Don’t be daft, Doctor,” she mumbled, frowning as she curled into him. “Why would I do that?”

“I… it’s just… I mean… well…”

“Your name is the Doctor. They gotta learn that. N’go to sleep.”

_“He needs you. That’s very me.”_

And there it was. He doubted the Time Lord him would have realized that he was handing his Meta-Crisis a lifeline, but that was exactly what it was. He _was_ the Doctor. Because of memories. Because of what he’d done in bodies that had almost-not-quite been his. Because of how he thought. Because of how he felt. Because he was making a Sonic Screwdriver and would use it to save rather than destroy.

Because of the girl that was curled into his side with mussed blonde hair and the eyes that saw _everything_ within him, even without the Time Vortex in her head. He kissed her hair over and over, whispering things she’d never remember but he needed to say. He’d repeat them to her, one day when he had the right words. That was simply the night he learned how to start to form them.

Two weeks later Torchwood Four sent over a few agents to do a consultation. The Irish agents were all an amicable lot who amused the entire Torchwood One with their very elaborate tales and genealogy that proved they were all related to each other, no matter how distantly.

“You must be Doctor Smith,” Captain Ahern said with a bemused smile after the Doctor had made one of his more dramatic entrances that included a copious amount of smoke and a dangerous banging noise.

“Just the Doctor, actually. Bit of a mix up with the papers and stuff – you know Torchwood.”

“Just… the Doctor?”

“Just the Doctor,” the Doctor reiterated, grinning broadly.

“Doctor who?” Agent Butler asked, completely baffled.

“Just ‘Doctor’,” he beamed back, rocking back on his heels and beaming from ear to ear.

He suddenly caught sight of Rose, who was holding papers out for her and Jake to read but who was completely ignoring everybody except him. The grin on her face was utterly dazzling and it was the final thing he needed to put the doubts at rest.

“Always the same man,” he said quietly, never breaking Rose’s gaze.

 **5** hours (that felt like an eternity) he waited for her to come back.

They’d argued before. Many times. They’d sniped and been rude and been unfair and taken frustrations out on each other. They’d yelled and been stubbornly silent and passive-aggressive and sulky. They’d bickered and disagreed and teased and quarrelled about small things and large things.

But they’d never _fought_ before then. Not like that.

It started out as a serious argument about everything and went downhill from there. Minor frustrations got blown out of proportion, words were twisted and used as weapons, past mistakes were hinted at, secrets were brutally laid bare. And the more they spiralled from hurting each other to tearing each other to pieces in the way only somebody who truly understood a person’s deepest soul could, the more manic they got. Brutality and cruelty took over their tongues, and as soon as they really started to get hurt defence kicked in and the whole cycle started again. There was no logic, only soul-deep love and hatred and _anger_ and hurt that left no room for mercy.

It was kill or have yourself shattered beyond compare.

“Contrary to everybody’s apparent belief, I was not created for the soul purpose of loving you! It’s not like I’m incapable of stopping!”

It stopped quicker than it had started. Suddenly, all the air in the world was gone.

“Yeah? Well I don’t want a cheap copy, anyway.”

She walked instead of stormed, closed the door instead of slamming it. And he was left devastated (gutted, wrecked, without gravity) in a flat that felt as though it was constricting him. The anger returned first, spurring him into motion and causing an upturned coffee table. But the anger ebbed quickly and he was left hollow. The guilt began to drown him as the doubt and the horror and the hurt fought for the chance to become the tightest noose around his neck.

What had he done?

He’d meant the things he’d said but hadn’t really. She’d hurt him, but he’d done the same. They were of equal blame but he had been the one to go so far below the belt it was shameful even compared to other sins. Forget being too stung to know how he’d forgive her. He was just worried that she wouldn’t come back. The flat that had seemed small enough to choke him before now seemed a million times too huge for one person.

He wanted to go out and find her, but wanted them both to have calmed down before he did. Otherwise emotions would start speaking for them again and if he said something _else_ like that he would… Lose her? Hadn’t he already? Had he? Different possibilities of where she’d gone and what would happen chased themselves like rabid hamsters in his head. He could see, all too clearly, how the bad ones would go; how she’d slip from his fingers because he still didn’t have the right words to say to her. But Rose would listen when he talked to her. She wouldn’t be that unreasonable. Not his Rose.

Or had he simply hurt her too much?

The inner torture continued – act or wait? Too late or not? Fight for her or respect her request for him to leave? – for five hours. Five hours he stared at the flat without seeing it, going through almost every negative emotion a human was capable of feeling.

Five hours before the door to the flat burst open.

For a moment he thought it was Jackie. Then he mistook Rose’s wildness for anger that she was coming to take out on him; anger like the burning power she’d had when she’d flung open the TARDIS doors and unleashed herself upon the Daleks. Only after that memory and that worry did he notice the way her makeup had made black scars on her cheeks. Only after that did he notice she was still crying.

“You’re still… I didn’t… It’s only been five hours and you said always wait five and a half…”

They didn’t rush toward each other, but instead walked calmly. He folded her in his arms securely and let her cry while he wished he’d run after her as soon as she’d left. Then again, he supposed it was only fair that he did the waiting, for once.

“I’m so sorry,” he murmured as soon as the tears stopped.

“I know,” she sniffed. “I am, too. I didn’t mean…”

“I know, love. I know.”

“We need to talk about… some of the things that came up, though,” she murmured against him.

“Yeah,” he agreed. “I’ll make tea?”

She nodded. “I’ll go…” One hand gestured lamely to her face.

“Just… one thing, first.” He pulled her in tight again, burying his nose in her hair and all but inhaling her in. “I changed my mind. Forget five and a half hours. Wait for eternity.”

She took a shuddering breath and he let go of her. “Okay.” Her eyes held the same seriousness – the same conviction – as they had when she’d answered _forever_.

“Okay.”

They brought up all the issues, fingers entwined, and although some yelling did happen and although they didn’t sleep quite as curled together that evening it really did turn out okay. Better, because he understood more of her and himself in relation to her. Better because she got a glimpse into how he saw things. Better because they’d spoken the harshest lies and would be able to spend the rest of their lives burying them in the truth as firm as their interlocked fingers.  

 **4** is the number of family members he suddenly found himself with.

The Doctor had been surprised, at first, to learn that Rose called Pete ‘Dad’. He’d been even more pleasantly surprised when Pete referred to Rose as ‘his daughter’ without thinking about it – not as a publicity stint, not to make sure her story matched up at all times but because he wanted to.

Then came the Tyler family dinners, which Rose had told him he could skip if he wanted but that he’d gone to anyway because he knew she wanted him there and he’d already survived a Christmas lunch with Jackie, so he knew it was _possible_ to make it out alive. In those dinners he watched how they interacted; watched how Rose and Tony and Pete and Jackie fit like puzzle pieces. Watched how Jackie still fussed, watched how much respect and love Pete gained for his daughter every day, watched how Tony did nothing but adore “Wose” with every inch of his heart.

Before he knew it, he was singing slightly tipsy duets with Pete, helping Rose babysit, making little boys into airplanes, hearing Jackie complain about her shows, playing one of the hosts at Jackie’s parties, being included in the pictures on the mantelpiece. But still he didn’t really understand.

“Thanks, dear, but I can’t come tonight. The whole family is over,” he heard Jackie say one night as he fetched some more drinks for everybody.

And he smiled a little at the softness in her voice that was reserved for those she loved, but didn’t for a moment think she meant anything else than ‘Rose, Pete and Tony are here with me’ until Christmas came. They had a large function at Torchwood, everybody cramming into one of the empty Zeppelin hangars that had been decorated to the nines. Even the agents on duty that evening were around and were simply wearing their radios as well as funny hats. Somebody started a karaoke and somebody else brought more booze and Jake was suddenly dancing with David Hackentosh’s wife and Rose was breathless with laughter that probably came from the apple sour shots she’d done with said Jake before he’d hijacked the rather flattered looking woman.

“Oi! You two! Photo!” Jackie’s voice called, and they grinned and scampered forward a little to cram themselves into the miniature crowd that had formed in front of the photographer.

“Just a Tyler family snap now, please,” Jackie insisted once the group shot was done, and the Doctor was just about to wander off with the rest when her arm linked with his.

He blinked at her in surprise but she was too busy straightening Tony’s hat. Pete wrapped the arm that wasn’t carrying his son around his wife and Rose slipped her cold hand into his.

“All right, Tylers, smile!”

It struck him with almost physical force that he was, as far as anybody was concerned, already part of that family. Fully part of that family. He was a son to a woman who loved as fiercely as her daughter for all her faults, a son to a man who respected him as much as he one day would Tony, a brother to a little boy who could almost lisp out his name and… the universe to a woman who was _everything_.

And then there were the colleagues who were more than that – the Trio who were slowly etching their own names into his heart like they had onto Rose’s. He’d been dumped on a beach as a man with nobody, and had ended up having everything he’d never dreamed of having.

In the picture, his smile was the widest of them all.

 **3** is the number of Rose’s Angels.

The first time he heard the phrase – Rose’s Angels – he honestly had no clue what the agents were talking about. He’d been joking around with a group of them on his first official day at Torchwood, jokingly hinting that he’d be spending all his free time seducing the Big Boss’s daughter to get ahead in the business.

“Good luck to you, mate,” an agent called Hamlet – the Doctor loved him already – chuckled. “You want to mess with the Lef, you’re going to get major retribution coming from the Angels.”

“The what?” the Doctor spluttered, choking on some of his banana bread. His thoughts sped immediately to the Weeping Angels and how it had been Martha, not Rose, who had learned about them with him and what if she was in danger and he hadn’t _realized_?

“Rose’s Angels,” Hamlet repeated, still grinning. “You know, like the movie _Charlie’s Angels_? Only instead of a redhead, a brunette and an Asian we have a Brit, a Scot and a _Welsh_.”

The Doctor left with Hamlet’s cryptic description and chuckles ringing in his head, a lot less panicked but not that much less confused. It turned out that the three-man team of Torchwood agents that answered to Rose as their leader – and who were regarded as some of the very, very best in the business – were jokingly termed Rose’s Angels by almost every employee of Torchwood and their family.

The “Brit” was Special Agent Jake Simmonds, yet to be promoted only because of his shifty record during and prior to the Cybermen invasion of Pete’s World. Jake had respected Rose the last time the Doctor had seen them interacting together, but he absolutely adored her now. They were the very best of friends; thick as thieves and unperturbed by what anybody else thought of how they acted. Jake was the one who had convinced Rose to dress in a toga and turban for an entire day, quoting Zen to whoever was unfortunate enough to talk to her. Rose was Jake’s wingwoman whenever they went out, testing to see if the man Jake had an eye on was really gay or just looked it. Jake made Rose think in a more military fashion when the shit was hitting the fan and was not as likely as his boss was to fall for the sob stories and the bleeding hearts. Rose made him softer, gave him an outlet for the personality that the ever-stoic Agent Simmonds couldn’t show anywhere else and made him not quite so trigger-happy. He was her right-hand man as well as an honorary member of the Tyler family and one half of the reason Rose’s team was almost always bickering.

The “Scot” was a man in his sixties who had survived what Pete’s World knew as the Petroleum War and had been sent to apply for a job at Torchwood by his exasperated wife who was sick and tired of him moping about missing action and adventure. His full name was Alan McGuff, but everybody called him McGruff; he was one of the grumpiest people the Doctor had ever met. There was something wrong with everything, no matter how small, and when something unexpectedly good happened it was _too_ good – a cause for suspicion and not celebration. He was excellent at working out strategies, though, was good in sticky situations, followed orders well and had a wealth of general knowledge that delighted the Doctor to no end. He was the other half of the office arguments problem: he and Jake were at each other’s throats constantly, finding a way to disagree and ridicule each other about everything from the way they dotted their ‘I’s to the type of music they liked and then some.

The “Welsh” was a man barely twenty called Cooper Gwen, who bore some resemblance to the old universe’s Gwen Cooper but also managed to look completely different. He had a heart soft enough to rival Rose’s, a sense of optimism in the world that the Doctor had to deeply admire, a dislike for violence, a rather naïve and gullible streak and a gift for technology – alien or otherwise – that had Rose laying down a firm rule that the Doctor was not to completely overwhelm him or turn him into his backup handyman.

Every member of the team – including Jake and McGruff, under their surface irritation and love for riling each other up – cared for each other deeply. It took the Doctor less than three days to realize Hamlet’s teasing warning was actually very close to the truth: the men on Rose’s team were fiercely loyal and fiercely protective of their boss and friend, and some bloke who popped out of nowhere, had to have an identity forged by Torchwood and was after _their_ Rose before they’d gotten to know him from a bar of soap was definitely on their caution list. Even Jake was a little weary of him: he’d heard the tales from Mickey and had been there for the tears and failed dates and the heartache and he needed to be _sure_ the Doctor was there to stay before he welcomed the man with completely open arms. None of the three were outwardly hostile – except McGruff, who was hostile with everybody – but the Doctor could still feel the ice in the atmosphere whenever he was around them.

“Just… you just gotta _learn_ ,” Rose told him when it finally came up in conversation. She kissed him gently. “You’ll understand that cryptic little nugget soon, clever man like you.”

And she was right: it didn’t take him long to start realizing that while he learned a million things – some of them unable to be put into mere words – from his brilliant Rose, there were things to learn about himself from her team as well.

From Jake he learned the lesson once again on how to take a past marred with war and loss and desperation and to turn it into something usable in the present. From Jake he remembered why he’d called himself the Doctor and how to remember without letting the memories and the anger consume him. From Cooper he learned how to step back and say nothing, even when you were being hurt or ridiculed or stepped on or were actually the one in the right in the situation. Cooper taught him how to take a deep breath and just let it go in the situations where he was obviously smarter but flashing the genius would cause more trouble to others than the ego boost was worth.

From McGruff he learned human subtlety – how people could be saying one thing and could belay their harshness at the same time with the little gestures and the little acts of kindness that they did behind the scenes. He learned how to deal with a man who prepared himself for the worst in every way so that when the good did come it took his breath away; a mentality that was not necessarily good but that made Alan McGuff who he was.

And, somewhere in the process of learning from them, the Doctor also learned about them. About their little ticks, their loves and pet peeves, the way they saw the world and organised their lives and – most importantly – how to interact with them. How to always be patient when teaching Cooper, because the kid didn’t take well to criticism. How to tell when Jake was simmering and about to explode in rage. How to tell when McGruff was really upset about something and when he was actually having a good day. And as he learned, they did too; communication methods meshed and soon the awkward silences and distrusting glances and misunderstandings faded and the line between Rose’s Boys and Rose’s Man disappeared.

“Does this mean he’s part of the Angels, now?” Cooper asked at Thanksgiving dinner, mildly taking the gravy from Jake so he could stop arguing with McGruff who had to move up their plate to make room for it on the table.

“Don’t be stupid. There are only three Angels,” McGruff barked, glaring at Cooper.

“He can be a stunt double?” Jake chuckled, ignoring the rolling eyes at the weak solution he’d offered.

“Did Charlie have a lover in the movies?” the Doctor asked hopefully.

“Charlie didn’t even have a _face_ in the movies.”

“So he could have had a lover, genius,” McGruff barked back. “Just because _you_ can’t find somebody-“

“But the Doctor’s still one of us,” Cooper interjected loudly.

Rose paused in the door of the kitchen, the last of the food in her hands. She watched her team scrutinise the Doctor, who went very still under their gaze.

“Suppose,” McGruff grunted, and it was the golden seal of approval that nobody could top.

The Doctor’s grin was soft and Rose felt warmth well up in her chest.

“See?” She murmured as she sat beside him. “Told you you’d figure it out.”

“That’s the kind of man I am,” he murmured to her, hoping he’d get to pull the wishbone so he could make absolutely sure none of this was ever taken from him.

 **2** is the number of hearts he still had, despite anything that happened.

The Doctor had told Rose, once upon a time when he was the old-new him, that the reason his accent had changed was because he’d imprinted on the way she spoke. What the Time Lord him left to the Meta-Crisis him to explain was how deep that imprint really went.

He whispered the truth into Rose’s ear, mapping every freckle and bruise on her bare skin with his fingers as he leaned above her and drank her in in something close to reverence. He told her how the body had been constructed _for_ her – how the regeneration process was random, but based firmly on the events that caused it. He’d regenerated _for her_ and it was that love that turned him into something he thought she’d find attractive. His height was just right for her. His shoulders just broad enough for her. His hand specially constructed to fit hers perfectly.

(Which, given what he’d been created from, was just that much more special.)

It also turned out that his body fit hers perfectly; that he could become one with her without having to think about it. It was because of that that he first realized the truth: when he pressed his chest against Rose’s – even when it was something as innocent as a hug – he suddenly had two hearts once more. And, somehow, her heart was in perfect synch with his to create a Time Lord’s heartbeat. He hadn’t lost a heart, he realized, it was just in another person. The other half of him – his balance and his mirror image, his _brilliant, brilliant Rose_.

She completed all the bits being half human robbed him of; she filled in the gaps to his knowledge, had energy in times when he needed rest, was a rock when he was drowning and the emotions when he was shutting down. Together the two of them made up a being more than human, orbiting each other and creating their own beat and running without stopping the whole time.

Two separate beings tethered together by a million impossibilities and a million smiles and the infinite knowledge that they were not separate, really.

 **1** is what he thinks when he looks at her.

He had one life left, but it was her life and that made it infinite in his eyes. He had one more chance to make it right – make it perfect – and every time he messed it up she gave him one more. Her hand was the only one he _really_ wanted to hold; the one that would get him through anything the world or his own insecurities could throw at him. And, despite still thinking human romance clichés were terrible, he knew she was _the one_. The thought of finding anybody else even remotely like Rose Tyler in any universe – anybody else who understood him like she did, made him grow like she did, let him be him like she did, sometimes frustrated him like she did, loved him with everything and then some more like she did, owned every inch of his soul like she did – was simply impossible.

One stands for first: the first face he saw every morning, the first smile he wanted to see in every situation, the first person he turned to with anything from excitement to fear, the first person he reached for every time, the very first reason he had for doing anything.

The first reason why he’d never change the past.

Pete laughed in the distance, video camera balanced on his palm as he recorded Rose spinning Tony around and around on the lawns of the Tyler mansion. The air smelt of summer and the lemonade on the table to the Doctor’s right, and the cloudless sky almost convinced them all that life would be trouble-free from then on. Jackie made her way over to the Doctor, and he could tell by her face that it was one of those times when she asked him a difficult question and expected nothing but the truth from him.

“Do you miss it?”

He inhaled deeply, still keeping his eyes on the squealing Tony and the laughing Rose. “Yes,” he answered truthfully, thoughts spinning to galaxies and planets and _all_ time and the TARDIS and freedom that he could only get a taste of, here.

Jackie nodded sagely beside him, silent for once, and for a moment they both watched the Tyler children celebrate the summer. The sunlight bounced off their blonde hair and it made it look like they had halos. It took away some of Rose’s human disguise and showed the world a little of the shining, brilliant creature she was in her soul. Bad Wolf. Rose Tyler. Both of them the glowing brilliance that brightened his day and burnt at his very soul.

“I am the Doctor,” he continued to Jackie, turning to face her as her eyebrow arched as if to tell him that she _knew that, stupid_. But she didn’t know. Not _really._ “I am Rose’s Doctor. And she is _my_ Rose. This is our universe; our planet under _our_ protection. Do I miss being a Time Lord in a TARDIS with all of time and space at my command? _Oh, yes_. Would I trade places with _him_?” He grinned, wide and beautiful and terrible all at once. “Not in a million years, Jackie.”

Something cracked in Jackie Tyler’s eyes, but before he could decipher it fingers wove into his and he was being tugged to the grass that served as a dance floor by a laughing Rose. He clutched at her fingers as they twirled until they were dizzy, mouths aching from smiling and voices hoarse from laughing so hard.

And, later, he entwined himself with her completely. He lost track of who he was and who was beneath him and instead got lost in the feeling of him and Rose – hands clasped, lips locked – fully together.

In the moments he was completely one with her, he knew exactly who he was.


End file.
